


A Prince's Desire

by avgust



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 03:55:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9217661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avgust/pseuds/avgust
Summary: Desire is Cruel...a one sided Thorin/Thranduil fic.





	

Emeralds pulled him into their domain of glistening stars deep within their depths. Mithril flecks reflected out from beyond those orbs drawing him ever further in. Impossibly long lashes framed the edges of those eyes that shimmered like ice as if the very cold came from the phantom's soul, painting their frost in the thinnest of lines.

A tilt of the head froze the prince in place as he stood beside his grandfather's throne, a finishing touch of their mighty troika. A subtle glance from icy eyes drifted his way, finally regarding him for a fleeting second, snatching his breath and chocking him in disregard, as if to deride his very being. Just as quickly as the acknowledgment came from that specter, crowned with gilded branches and leaves, the gaze was gone, a void of light no longer reflected in his own eyes. That specter of light, of ice, and of silver cruelty kept his interest on anyone but him.

'Elves.' He cursed their unnatural elegance, long deceiving limbs that looked as alabaster. Skin that glowed in ethereal illumination, hair that flowed like liquid, reflecting back like diamonds to his eyes. He cursed their kind for making him desire the secrets of their world, for making him burn with the need for them. Not even diamonds were as cold as the sparkle deep within the Elvenking's eyes.

The beings stood before them, mocking in their regard of the grandeur his patriarch had crafted deep within the mountain; of the riches they had amassed, of the treasures they had found. Emerald eyes seemed to will a sparkle that outshone even the Arkenstone. Thror could bend mountains, but the gaze that pierced them back, cold as ice, could not be moved to pliability.

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Long slender fingers tipped with white fingernails traced the edges of the goblet, a slight upturn of the Elvenking's delicate lips, demanding his gaze, luring his attention solely to him. The fingers seemed to paint empty promises of unabashed and wanton craving, despite the glacial eyes that sent shivers down Thorin's spine. Condescending gems trapped and masked any thoughts or emotions from the one who cast them his way.

Long he sat alone in the dining hall, into the late hours after everyone had departed. The tall phantoms had drifted away as the very snow that blew across the lands. Ice figures, he wished to crush into fragments, to melt away the hold the Elvenking had cast on his heart.

His youth betrayed him and and he clenched tight his fists cursing the thought of whomever had managed to see warmth reflected in those green eyes, to bring those wicked lips into smile, and taste sweet dark secrets hidden beneath those lips. He wondered if elves were even capable of love, of warmth, or if they let their lovers fall into the cold depths of their eyes, down into the pits of their bottomless hearts, trapped within the harshness that embodied their gazes.

Thorin's emotions stormed through every fibre of his being, for if there were one thing about dwarves, despite their size, they felt emotion twice as strong which drove them to such strength and force, such passion. He wondered as much about the cursed elves, the ancient race and their accursed frost covered words that blew like the harshest of winds, laced with their glacial sting.

Despite his youth, Thorin was astute, and he knew that ice was all the Elvenking had in place of a heart, a diamond stone that neither beat nor yearned for anything or anyone. But could he resist that frigid phantom? The cursed specter of mithril and forest green eyes was nothing short of pure desire.

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It was a maddening cycle of green eyes and limbs of porcelain and long ivory fingers, silver strands he was sure felt as silk. An otherworldly beauty that seemed impossible for anything living to possess. Such warmth, such gentle smiles, and warm honey words that spoke with seduction and such ardent longing. All his aloofness the Elvenking had cast his way earlier, melted away in the warmth of the storm. No crown held his silver hair in place and the glistening strands rippled as waves, rivers of silk. Those long ivory fingers reached for his caress. Emerald gems reflected a glow of a fire that melted the ice that was his skin, leaving behind a flushed canvass of ivory cream. His naked form begging for Thorin's touch, wrapping his soft hands around his shaft, pumping the prince and whispering his elvish filth into his ear….

He screamed his name in an eruption of bitter release, the taste of cold granite on his lips instead of sweet juices of pine, of nectar, of frost. The echos of his voice rolled in his chambers, mocking his secret out to the darkness beyond his bed. And sleep, like filth, were one in the same.

Curses on the Elvenking and the spell he wove which infatuated the young prince's dreams, like the howling winds that blew in the cold of winter. Curses, he gripped his blankets made of the softest of furs and finest of linens, and pulled the soiled bedding away as if he were casting the Elvenking from his mind. Such disdain, such frosty eyes of green scorn and mocking mirth.

The cold stone floor of the mountain stronghold couldn't match the stark hardness that was reflected from the eyes that refused to dissipate from his mind. It was if a continues flow of Elvish incantations cast the Elvenking into his very consciousness, willing only that wretched creature deep into his core. An anger that only Dwarven pride could produce welled from within until it was manifested in flaming tears that pulled at his ducts, searing his flesh.

Oh how he swore at that phantom being, whose sweet fragrances filled the halls of Erebor, scents of his forest homeland, of pines and mossy wood, ciders and ferns. Thorin almost spat, the pungent aromas filled his chambers, embracing them in all their goodness and temptation as if the Elvenking himself were here beside him. But the room was empty. Not even the shadows stirred the stillness.

He knew he could have any dwarf-maiden he wanted, even the mightiest Dwarf Lord would bow to his whims, but not that contemptuous Elvenking, his eyes and mocking slight tilt of his head, spoke boldly of his defiance, a not so subtle undertone that was lost to his treasure consumed King and father. Thorin had saw it then, the Arkenstone reflecting in those jeweled eyes that shone much brighter, as if boasting of a gem that the dwarves could never possess.  
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Morning broke but the rise of the sun chased only the darkness that had settled on the land. Thorin had found little sleep through the night. The chatter of the Dwarves masked their Elven guests and the King of their wretched kind sat silent, engaged by the King under the Mountain. Emerald gems watched meats and cheeses, breads and fruits fill Thror's mouth, while he spoke of the ever growing wealth his people amassed, their dwarvish creations, and of his influence. The Elvenking listened on with frosty indifference.

Thorin couldn't move his stare, a voyeur who knew that anyone who glanced his way could easily see the object of his desire. The young dwarf prince stood to leave. Never retreat from a foe in battle his father had taught him, but then again, his father had never fought a foe like the Elvenking of Greenwood.

Curious eyes of glacial green snapped to his attention when Thorin stood to leave, and even Thror accessed his grandson's breach of protocol by leaving the foreign delegates. Thorin didn't care, it was better to be alone, better to use sweet distance to erase that creature from his thoughts.

Thorin did his best to evade the elven party during their stay, especially that of their mithril king. His avoidances were outwitted by a determined Dwarvish King and amused green eyes smiling beneath their long elven lashes. His absences were always found with the boom of his grandfather's voice pulling ever closer to the specter of wrath and pine, ice and delicate forest flowers, of emeralds and fern, silver and frost. The final piece of the royal troika, mighty and proud Thorin was bound to his duties, bound to the presence of the Elvenking for the duration of his stay.

And stay he did, day after day in meetings and counsel and Thorin was forced to witness the Elvenking's venom, his biting words woven with allusions that were lost to the dwarves, but not on Thorin whose acuity was profound. Green eyes regarded the flush on his cheeks, burning in his anger. How dare this creature bring his honey covered sarcasm veiled under his acclaim for Dwarvish achievements. Thror beamed on, oblivious to the cold of the words, his treasures were vast, his rule sealed under the glow of the divine Arkenstone, and his line was just and mighty as was his kingdom under the lonely mountain. What did elves know of such matters, with all their frivolous focus on feasting, song and mirth?

Thorin couldn't comprehend why his grandfather allowed this condescending specter to haunt their halls, casting his astral illuminations and essence deep into Erebor. Oh how the elf would pay for his debonair, his pretension, trying to exert his authority within their mighty mountain. Thorin clenched his jaw while frosty orbs beckoned for his gaze and the ever gentlest of smiles curved across the alabaster of his flawless skin. Skin that Thorin wanted to make flush in pinks, and burn with his desire. He knew he needed this Elvenking in his life, a satisfaction that could calm the dreams that plagued him.

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Even Dwarvish hearts could be turned from the hottest of fires to the coldest of ice. With all the force of the lonely mountain's strength Thorin knocked the Elvenking down from his towering stance. A gasp of breath that released the scent of of icy mint let Thorin know he had the upper hand, surprising even the ancient, the wisest in the land. Emerald eyes flashed wide in surprise, lips opened revealing perfect teeth and the pinkest of tongues. Thorin would show this specter that even the coldest of ice was no match for his fire.

With rough hands that moved with dexterity and speed, the baffled King was pinned under the weight of the prince. Elvish curses that Thorin ignored did little to halt the advances he made on the elf. Bruising kisses and strong embraces, garments torn away while he ground his captive down, stating exactly what he, Thorin prince of Erebor would do to his elvish core. Words that resounded every single glance and smirk and pompous icy disregard the Elvenking had sent his way.

Oh how far the mighty fall. Thorin stood over him, the strong Elvenking who moaned for his release. Long slender fingers were swatted away from his maddening length, throbbing with fire, burning the specter of ice. Oh how the haughty can crumble into ruin. And this Dwarvish prince had brought him down crashing into the frigid waters of torment and need. With restraint and authority, it was he who towered over this once proud king, unabashedly yearning in all his wanton desire, begging for his release. Oh how he hoped the elf cursed the names of dwarves and yearned for their fiery hearts and rich velvety voices that drew their lovers into the warmest and strongest of embraces. How he wished the Elvenking bled for their steadfast gazes burning with the very fires of their heart. And he knew that the Elvenking would curse his name forever throughout the ages.

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Anguish is easier to digest in the buffer of dreams, but in waking, knowing his conquest was nothing more than a reverie, that awareness was crushing. Thorin sighed at the sight of his bedding, crumpled in the tight of his fists. No being of ice and mithril, emeralds and frost was beneath crying out his name, pleading for his touch, eyes broken in their need. What had this bewitching devil done to him? Dwarven princes were as resolute as the mightiest of mountains, but Thorin doubted any of that now.

Cold water washed his burning body, still unshed from the unrequited dream. What conjurer of enchantment was this Elvenking? What power could he possibly possess to have captured Thorin's heart and mind the way in which he had?

He dressed himself that late night in the simplest of clothes, and wondered around his majestic cavern home. Halls of soaring pillars were still and silent and the cold in the air put his mind at ease. Thorin's thoughts drifted to the peace and power they had in Erebor. He thought of Dale just beyond their gates, he thought of pine and moss and gentle forest flowers…

Thorin turned abrupt. Cold green eyes peered down at him. No phantom tricks this time cast into his dreams. The Elvenking inclined his head, mocking ever still, an apparition manifested before the dwarven prince. Thorin was not surprised to find an elf had crept upon him unnoticed, his wonder lingered on the question; what was this specter doing? What was the Elvenking trying to find; what was his aim, his want? He didn't expect much from this creature.

And less was all he got. The snide lips, glistening emerald eyes, mithril hair that gleamed and a light that enveloped the Elvenking's being were gone in fluid glide. Not a word! Not a single word had that creature spoken to him. Just a patronizing stare fixated with his when he brushed his way past Thorin, as if he were nothing; an object to gaze on and nothing more. No acknowledgement or turning to see wide eyes and an utter disbelief that narrowed into fury.

Thorin felt his heart boil to rage, hands curl into fists. One foot in front of the other, he advanced on that creature, moving himself with a speed that was deceitful of his diminutive strong dwarven legs. Oh how he knew that the accursed elf had cast his spell on him.

Emerald eyes froze him, a warning Thorin debated to ignore. Oh curse the Elvenking and his full lips of the softest of pinks and that flawless ivory skin. Those eyes derided Thorin's deepest of feelings, his truest desires. His desires were laid bare, as evident as the lonely mountain that towered over the snowy land. Long elven fingers reached for his hair, a delicate touch lifted one of his brown strands, and then cast it away as if in pure disgust.

Emeralds pushed him away and elvish scoffing filled his mind, words clear and loud from unmoving lips, the Elvenking's thoughts were translucent to the dwarf.

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Long after the elves had departed, Thorin reflected on the words that the Elvenking had projected in his mind, words that echoed with his elvish silk and lilt. "Kings have no desire for princes, Thorin son of Thrain."

Oh how he cursed the elf and all his alabaster and frost, his emeralds and splendor, mithril and ice. If king was what Thranduil desired, then the mightiest of dwarven kings Thorin would become, crowned deep within the lonely mountain with the Arkenstone on his brow.

Thorin allowed a smile to cross his face, thinking of the delegation who would come with smirks in their eye and their crowned leader at their head. It would be that elvish scum this time who would crave and curse, and Thorin would haunt his dreams….

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta read. Sorry for any mistakes.


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